


Fight or Flight

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: Trapeze (1956)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 03:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17154668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: Tino Orsini had fought for everything he had in this world.  Flying.  The triple.Mike.





	Fight or Flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dorinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorinda/gifts).



Tino Orsini had fought for everything he had in this world. Flying. The triple.

Mike.

He fought his ma, who wanted him to find a regular job, like a plumber. Or an ironworker, if he had to climb high things.

He fought his dad, who at first didn't want another flyer in the family, didn't want his son in the business that had chewed him up and spit him out, and only gradually gave in, in the face of how much Tino wanted to fly.

And he fought Mike.

Mike, who was the only circus man his father spoke of admiringly. Mike, who'd been throwing his life away with booze and bitterness when Tino had shown up at Bouglione's circus. Mike, who was the best catcher he'd ever worked with. Mike, who made him work and work until his muscles burned and his wrists ached and the skin peeled off the palms of his hands. 

Mike, who he fought for and fought with and who he felt closer to than any other person he'd ever met.

He threw that triple in front of Bouglione and Ringling North and a full house, but the only thing that mattered to him was that it was Mike who caught him, the clocks ticking in both of their chests in absolute, perfect time.

Tino had five minutes of perfect happiness, five minutes of thinking that everything was going to be all right now. Five minutes of thinking that Lola was finally out of the picture and he'd saved the act with Mike and the two of them would go to New York together and everything would be perfect.

But then he broke away from the reporters who'd surrounded him and went looking for Mike, wanting to celebrate with him. Instead of a celebration, he found Mike walking away from him, away from the circus, and then waiting for Lola to catch up to him. Watching them walk away from him, it felt like one of the sword swallowers' blades had gone through his chest, piercing his heart and stopping the clock at his core.

In that split second, the fight went out of him. He felt hollow, as if everything he'd ever fought for wasn't worth a Goddamn thing. And suddenly, he couldn't get out of Paris quickly enough. 

So, instead of fighting, he did what everyone seemed to want him to do. He signed the contract with Ringling North. He took Otto as his partner. He packed up what little he owned—a duffle of clothes and his flying skins, his rig—and got on a plane for New York. When he landed in New York, he called up a cousin on his mother's side, and within a day he had a small apartment in Hell's Kitchen, and had thrown himself into the routine of the Ringling Brothers Circus.

It was a good life. He'd always dreamt of flying in a big circus, and now he was flying in the biggest circus on either side of the Atlantic. He'd always wanted to throw a triple, and now he was throwing them in front of the largest crowds he'd ever seen. It was a good life, and he knew it, but it felt hollow without Mike there to share it with him.

Otto was a good catcher but he wasn't nearly the catcher Mike was. His hands were rougher, and his catches weren't as smooth. The clock in his chest didn't tick at the same rhythm as Tino's did, and he wasn't always where Tino needed him to be on his swing. There were shows when Tino had to reach, to stretch, to connect on the triple. There were even the occasional shows when Otto wasn't there soon enough and Tino missed the triple completely and tumbled into the net below. And every time that happened, a quiet voice in the back of his head said, "Mike would have caught you."

He'd been in New York for three weeks when the first letter came, from R. O'Flynn, c/o Le Cirque de Bouglione, Paris, France. He could hear Rosa's voice in every word, every bit of gossip about the people he'd left behind: Max and his harmonica, Sid and his snakes, Chikka and his horses. 

And Mike.

Not that Rosa said much about Mike.

_Mike and that woman have a new act. She flies well enough, but she's not as pretty as you_ , Rosa wrote, before launching into a description of the latest horse Chikka had acquired for her to perform with, a flighty Arabian she nevertheless seemed fond of.

Tino read the lines about Mike over and over, then went to the stationery store down the block after rehearsal and bought air mail envelopes and paper and a pen, and sent a reply back to R. O'Flynn with the morning's post. He wrote to Rosa about what it was like to perform in Madison Square Garden and how grand the Ringling parade was. He confessed that the horse act wasn't nearly as good as hers, but that the dog act was better than Bouglione's. He told himself he was writing to Rosa because she was a friend, even as he secretly knew he was doing it because he wanted more news of Mike. Not that he mentioned Mike in his letter. Not once. Not even to tell her that Otto wasn't nearly as good a catcher as Mike.

The next week, their final week in New York, there was another letter from Rosa, with another line about Mike.

_Mike has taught that woman how to throw a single. She's not bad, but still not as pretty as you._

Tino wrote back, this time with stories of finally visiting his parents in Brooklyn, of how proud his father was that he'd earned a contract from Ringling North, and how worried his mother was that he was flying in such a big circus.

The letters back and forth with Rosa became a weekly thing. Rosa sent the latest news from Paris, with a line or two about Mike and "that woman." (Lola was _always_ "that woman" to Rosa in the letters.) Tino sent stories about Ringling Brothers and whatever city they happened to be performing in, and never, ever asked about Mike. The letters followed him as the circus moved to Philadelphia for an extended run, and then on the road as they began a tour. And every time he got a new letter, he'd read the scrap of news about Mike and "that woman's" act until he had it memorized, then put it in the pile with the other letters and tied them with a scrap of ribbon he'd found in the costume area when they'd done a three-day run in Baraboo. 

Then, when they'd returned to Philadelphia, Ringling's home base, for one last run before their contract ran out, Tino got one last letter from Rosa. This one didn't have just one line about Mike. It had whole paragraphs. None of them good. 

_Dear Tino_ , Rosa wrote.

_I know you've never asked about Mike, but I've always thought half the reason you continue to write back to me is for news of him. And now something has happened with him at Bouglione's little circus that I think you should know about._

_Two weeks ago, that woman's former partners came sniffing around the circus again. Their booking in Marseilles had ended and they were looking for a new one. And nothing might have come of it, except Mike's been drinking again. Not as much as he was when you first arrived, but perhaps too much for someone who works the trapeze. And I could see that woman was beginning to be wary of going into the rigging with him. It may be disloyal of me, but I didn't blame her. You know in a trapeze act your partner needs steady hands and a clear head._

_When Mike saw her old partners hanging around Bouglione's, he started drinking more. And then one night I saw her sneaking out of the circus with them. Unfortunately for everyone's sleep, Mike saw her, too. He was waiting for her when she got home that night and had such a row with her, they woke up the whole neighbourhood. There was yelling and glass breaking and doors slamming, and at the end of it, she left Mike and their act and the Bouglione circus. Rumour is, she and her old act have gone to try their luck in Spain._

_Now that Mike has no act, he's drinking more than ever. Bouglione has hired him back as a rigger, but I worry that he won't last long even at that._

_I know you have no reason to care about Mike—he walked away from you for that woman, after all—but if you do, I think he could use your friendship, and more, right now._

_Write to him, Tino._

_Your friend, as ever,  
Rosa_

This letter, Tino read only once, and then he held a match to it and burned it to cinders in his waste basket. He read it only once, but the words were as burned into his memory as if he'd read it a hundred times. 

He spent the final week of the run in Philadelphia with Rosa's words playing in his head, and wondering how Mike was doing. Wondering _what_ Mike was doing. He was so distracted he missed his triple both times in their final two shows.

"Where was your head?" Otto asked him after the second show and the second miss, his voice sharper than usual. "You came out of the tuck too late. You could have taken us both down. Keep that up and Ringling North won't sign us to another season."

Tino shrugged and apologized and then headed straight to the small place he'd rented for their run.

Once he was home, he stared at the bundle of letters on the mantlepiece—all the letters from Rosa, save that last one—took a deep breath, and made a decision.

In fifteen minutes, he had the duffle full of his clothes and flying skins in one hand, and his rig slung over his shoulder. He was wearing his new leather jacket (the one thing he'd spent money on since he'd started earning Ringling money) with his passport and all the money he'd saved in the breast pocket. In less than an hour, he was at the train station. Not long after that, he was on a train to New York. And twelve hours later, he was on a flight to Paris.

On his first trip to Paris, he'd had no money but plenty of time, so he'd worked his way across the Atlantic on a freighter looking for crew. He'd spent a week at sea looking forward to meeting the legendary Mike Ribble his father had so admired.

This time, the journey took only hours, not days, and he was filled with fear, not anticipation.

The Mike Ribble he was seeking out this time was a man, not a legend. A man who'd broken his heart twice, who'd left him for "that woman" twice. A man who Tino couldn't forget, couldn't purge from his memory. 

His plane landed in the morning, and he used some of his Ringling money to take a taxi right to the circus. There was the usual mix of performers and riggers milling outside the building and in, and Tino took advantage of the chaos to slip inside. He caught sight of Max and Rosa, but slid away before either of them saw him, even while he kept an eye out for Mike.

He entered the ring, with its familiar smell of sawdust and animals and sweat, and remembered his first time in this place, how eager he'd been. How innocent. 

Then he looked up into the rigging, and that's when he saw Mike high above the ring tying off the trapeze rigging, just as he'd been doing the first time Tino had seen him. Tino felt a rush of adrenaline, and it seemed for a moment as if no time at all had passed. For a moment he felt as innocent and eager as he'd been all those months ago when he'd first arrived here.

He threw down his duffle and his rig, kicked off his shoes, and was moving to the ladder before he knew what he was doing, and only stopped when he felt a hand on his elbow. He turned to find Rosa at his side.

"You came," she said, her expression equal parts anguish and relief.

"I couldn't not," he said, and put one hand on the ladder.

"Careful," she said, keeping her hand firmly on his elbow and holding him back. "He's become what he was before you came."

"Don't worry," he said, putting a comforting hand over hers. "I'll bring him back." Then he eased her hand off him, and went back to the ladder.

He climbed up with just his hands and arms, his legs held straight out in front of him, an unnecessarily flashy movement he hoped would catch Mike's eye.

When he got to the top, to the flyers' platform, Tino called across to where Mike was sitting on the catcher's bar, adjusting the side.

"I'm looking for Mike Ribble," he said, even as he met Mike straight in the eye. "I want him to teach me the triple."

"Never heard of him," Mike said, then quickly looked back down at the bar he was sitting on.

"You must have heard of him," Tino pushed. "He's one of the best on the trapeze, flyer or catcher."

"No one like that here," Mike said without looking up. "And I've got to go set up the trampoline, so if you'll excuse me." He reached out for the rope down, and Tino saw his window of opportunity closing. So, just as he had that first day, he made a leap of faith.

Tino grabbed the flyer's bar, and gave it a swing, testing its arc once before he grabbed it and swung out into the air.

"Hey!" he heard Mike yell, but he didn't let it stop him, he just pumped as high as he could, feeling the air swirl around him.

"There's no net, you madman," Mike yelled. But in spite of the urgency in his voice, Tino could see that he'd started swinging on the catcher's bar, beginning to match his swing to Tino's. Tino couldn't help but smile, and he felt the clock in his chest, the one that had died when Mike walked away from him, stutter to life. Tino pumped again, feeling the good burn of his muscles, feeling the timing begin to slot into place.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he let go, tucked, and spun, once, twice, three times.

As he came out of the spin, body straight and arms outstretched, he felt two hand grasp his wrists, the grip firm and strong and exactly where it needed to be.

He looked up to find Mike looking down at him, his face an expression of grief.

"You could have fallen," Mike said as they flew through the air together. "You could have died."

"Not with you there to catch me," Tino said, as sure of that as he'd been of anything in his life. Then he spun and flew and caught the flyer's bar and swung over to the platform. He stood there, adrenaline spiking through his system, flowing under his skin, as Mike pulled himself up to sit on the bar. "One flies," he called across to Mike.

"One catches," Mike replied, and Tino heard a hitch in his voice.

"And no one comes between," they both finished together, their voices in harmony, their clocks in perfect time at last.


End file.
